Trouble Lurking
by hyperthermophile
Summary: He hopes. He dreams. He gives. He never stops trying, and he never will. But in the end it's hopeless- he will never be anything more than just a cheap replacement in the artist's heart.


Haha, it's been quite awhile since I've last uploaded, no?

This is a short, introspective oneshot I wrote for Jashin-chan's contest on DeviantArt, featuring Tobi, Deidara, and, to a very lesser extent, Sasori. She offered several themes to chose from to center your piece on, and I chose "Trouble Lurking." Ironically, almost all of the other prompts inspired me to write something from Kingdom Hearts, though she specifically wanted Naruto-themed entries. Strange.

_(By the way- if you read any of my other stories, there are some very important updates and notes on my profile that you might wanna check out.)_

Warnings: Angst, my tendency to get philosophical, canon character death.

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. And honestly, I'm not sure I'd want to. That's all on Kishimoto.

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There is trouble lurking.

He can sense it, this feeling of danger that thickens the air, clotting and congealing until it seems as though he's being smothered. He can see it, that threatening emotion hovering just beyond the crystal, cynical eyes of his blonde master. He can feel it, the desperate motivation behind those slender fingers as they tear away his mask and caress his face underneath.

_There is trouble lurking here, _Tobi thought dimly as his clothing was stripped hungrily from his body. _If only I was smart enough to know…_

He had an idea. He didn't know the exact problem, but he could take a guess at it's source. It had something to do with the picture of the fiery-haired teen the blonde carried with him everywhere. Something to do with the smell of wood and sawdust that still tainted the air in the room. Something to do with the way the mattress sagged on his side of the bed, the ghost of a lover not long gone.

Tobi didn't fit into that shallow imprint. His form was too big, his body too awkward and unwieldy to rest comfortably in that delicate dent. It made him sad, that this place on the bed where he lived would never actually belong to him. Sad, upset, distressed. But he would rather rest there, in the bed that wasn't his own, for hours and hours and _hours_ than have to live with the _puppet _for another second.

Never before had Tobi hated something so passionately as that puppet. Not just hated. _Despised_. _Loathed_. Abhorred with every fiber in his being.

It rested innocuously in the corner of the room, a heap of disjointed limbs and cracked pieces of wood that had been clumsily put back together. The only part that was still fully intact was the face, a hideous mask of wood with plastic eyes that followed him blankly wherever he walked. They accused him, those eyes, staring him down and demanding to know _what_ he was doing in _his_ room, with _his_ man.

Tobi couldn't stand to be alone in the room with it. His chest would tighten painfully, his breathing would quicken, and he would get the sudden, terrible urge to break whatever he was holding at the time, to shatter and twist and kill. It wasn't like him, these violent tornado thoughts that would go whirling across his mind in a flurry of emotion. It was the puppet's fault, he was sure of it. The puppet made him feel these things, _wanted _him to feel these things.

There was a time when Tobi, sent flying into one of his senseless rages by the puppet, had stumbled into the tiny bathroom, seeking escape from that thing, from himself, from the world. And when he had looked into the mirror, the eye that shone through his orange mask wasn't his own. It was the other eye, the one colored with a bloodlust tainted red and filled with tiny spots of black decay. The other him.

And Tobi had screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed, fist smashing over and over into that dark reflection until it came apart into little tiny pieces underneath his fingers, cutting his hands and staining them red. He fell to the floor with a wail, curling into a ball among the shattered pieces of glass, unable to stop shuddering even as his skin was ripped and torn and sliced.

And suddenly his master had been there, pulling him up and back and away from the danger, stroking his face over and over until Tobi had collapsed sobbing into his arms and the red had vanished from his eye, like it had never been there in the first place.

But the puppet was still there. And it laughed at him. Laughed at him then, as he crouched in the shelter of his master's arms, covered in blood. Laughed at him now, as he lay submissively beneath the smaller man. There was no blood this time, but Tobi didn't understand because he hurt so much more than he ever had before. Because now he could see that the blonde wasn't looking at HIM. There was another in those blue eyes, and another in that raw heart, and Tobi realized that no matter how hard he tried, he could never be the substitute that his sempai needed.

"Why don't you ever kiss me, sempai?" he whispered into the darkness of the room when they had finished. He already knew the answer, but the question escaped him nonetheless, betraying the small spark that still lingered in his chest.

There was a moment of silence, a hesitation on the blonde's part, and for a painful second Tobi allowed that small spark to flicker with hope. But the artist only sighed, his blue eyes clouding with an undecipherable emotion. "Get out of here, un…" he murmured, turning his back on the other man.

"But… sempai, I lov-" Tobi started, as he reached out to his sempai.

"LEAVE."

And Tobi left.

Someone smarter than Tobi might have realized by then that it was hopeless. That it was futile. That no matter how hard he tried, he would never, ever succeed. Because whoever had been there before him had held the blonde's heart when he was alive, and taken it with him when he had died.

But he could try. He would try. He was still trying.

He was trying now, joking at his own expense in an attempt to make his sempai smile. Now, as he set up camp and made the dinner and did all the chores because the artist was tired and needed his rest. Now, as he good-naturedly took the abuse handed to him, because he realized that his master was under a lot of pressure and needed an outlet to release his stress.

Even now, as Tobi lunges between the blonde and the dark boy (_his eyes, why are his eyes so familiar?_) he is still trying. Even as he takes hit after hit for his sempai, joining the bloody melee with all he has to offer. Even as the fight grows more intense and more brutal and more desperate, with move after move after move being pulled out in quick succession all for nothing.

There is little hope left in this fight, however. No chance of victory. But Tobi continues to fight alongside his sempai, because he is still trying. He will always fight for his sempai, because the delicate blonde artist is his only reason for living in this world.

Except that it is a one-sided sentiment. After all, his sempai's only reason has already left this world.

And now the artist is ready to join him.

There is a moment on silence, a hesitation on the blonde's part as he regards the dark boy standing among the trees. The artist sighs, and the trouble that has been lurking underneath those blue eyes finally vanishes, replaced by a resigned peace. "Get out of here, un…" he murmurs, turning to face the other man.

"But… sempai, I lov-" Tobi started, reaching out to his sempai.

"LEAVE."

And Tobi leaves.

Not because he's stopped trying, not because he's realized it's hopeless. But because for that one second that spanned an eternity, his master had looked at him. Not through him, not at what he wasn't, but at what he _was. _And in those crystal eyes Tobi had seen everything he had ever hoped for. A willing acknowledgement of his presence, a silent plea for forgiveness, a gentle thank-you for always _trying_.

It was only a second, but it was enough.

The explosion tears through acres of forest, but the artist had waited just long enough for Tobi to move out of range and survive. He isn't the only one though. The dark boy has also survived, pulling some impossible trick at the last possible second to escape the devastation.

Some would say that the artist failed his mission. But a sad smile touches Tobi's face, because he knows the truth. His master succeeded. He's finally at peace, finally reunited with the boy with the fiery-hair.

And Tobi hopes, he really does, that his sempai is happy.

Because if his sempai is happy, then Tobi is happy.

And perhaps someday Tobi will join his master, wherever he has gone. But until then there are missions to be completed for the Leader, and possibly a couple of errands to run on his own. The dark boy is still alive, after all, and though Tobi plans to eventually claim vengeance for his sempai, there are other things that must be done before then.

There is still trouble lurking.

Just of a different sort.

"_Wait for me, Deidara-sempai."_

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End.

For the record, this is supposed to be written in a disjointed, awkward form of prose. I was trying to capture the chaos and emotion of Tobi's mental state. It's a little raw, but I think it turned out fairly well. Ironically, I had a fairly happy song by Basshunter looping in the background the entire time I was writing this. "All I Ever Wanted." It's bouncy and techno and hopeful sounding, and this story is what it brought to mind.

Go figure.

_(Comments would be greatly appreciated!)_


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